The dark suited man closes his large front door as quietly as he can. He cringes after the large iron knocker clacks noisily against the door, disrupting his attempt. The noise resonates through the stairwell, but luckily, does not disrupt his sleeping family. His hollow steps echo on the sidewalk as he makes his way down the block. Early commuters swish by him on their bikes, otherwise the street is quiet. The sky is still dark at this early morning hour. His dress shoes in a previous life kissed carpeted office building floors and accelerator pedals daily. They are now worn from the weather and outdoor miles he has put on them during the past year. He waits in the drizzle to cross the street at the end of the block and buries his head deeper into the collar of his warm grey overcoat. Raindrops dance upon his hat. He learned months ago that carrying an umbrella in The Netherlands is a futile attempt – the blustery North Sea Wind targets and eliminates umbrellas with a precision and swiftness of military snipers. Although it is raining, the headlights of the cars do not blink. They stay on a determined path, not allowing him to pass, like they would for a mother and a double stroller. His blue eyes dilate upon entering into the fluorescent shine of the train station. With seamless routine, he dislodges his wallet, slides out his train pass, and scans it on the metal machine. As the scanner beeps, he is shuffled through the gates with the rest of the commuters and makes his way up the stairs towards the train platform. His train approaches and people crowd the doors. His Southern Chivalry, the act of letting women on the train before him, simply confused and flustered the locals when he attempted it a year ago. He has learned to stick his elbows to his side as a tall middle-aged man inches his way closer to the edge of the tracks and tries to put his body between the crowd and the door. Jumping the queue is sport for some people in this country. Childhood lectures on patience and manners, “wait your turn, we’re all going to get on” and “ladies first” are useless mantras.
He nestles uncomfortably in his plastic seat and gazes out of the scratched windowpanes. He watches the world around him wake up – sleepy farms dotted with windmills and cows, the lights of Den Haag skyscrapers pass through his view, glistening in the drizzle. Some days, if it is the right time of year and the sky is unusually clear, he can see the sunrise on the horizon. He distractedly turns his attention to the commuters around him. No one smiles, no one says "Goede Morgen", or even nods in anyone’s direction. Quickly bored, he focuses back to his own world – opens a book, checks his phone for American Sports News, or takes a quick nap if the baby had been crying in the middle of the night. This is his most peaceful time of the day. He breathes deep as the train barrels down the tracks, anticipating what disaster he will meet on the other end of his commute today.
My husband has barely taken his first sip from his thimble-sized cup of coffee when his senior manager storms into his office like the Tasmania Devil he is. Always animated, always angry, and always loud, the man barks out orders to V in gruff English. V reflexively glances at his co-manager’s now-empty chair. At his office back in
there were a cast of managers, senior managers, and partners my husband worked
for and with. There were many
personalities, tons of knowledge, arm loads of strengths, ideas, and
problem-solving techniques that come with a large team of people. There were
mentor and mentee programs in place that had been working positively for
years. Here in The Netherlands, with the
departure of his office mate, there is a single direct line on the org chart
here at his office – V, Tasmanian Devil, and then a single Partner who would
rather not be bothered. With
anything. At all. Left to his own devices, the Tasmanian Devil
has picked up the limbs from the Partner’s Hands Off Approach and holds all
four hands in his control. V, always
respected, trusted, and successful at his office in Dallas
has worked harder in this past year than ever to try and appease the Tasmanian
Devil and complete the assignments blind-sidely dealt daily to him. The work, the hours, and even the jumping
through flaming hoops are not the things that challenge my husband. V’s hard work, without recognition plus
constant criticism and the blow that has taken to his confidence as a manager,
his attitude towards work and The Netherlands, and his stress level he brings
home because of it is the final
hurdle – our final hurdle, as a family.
In other words, The Tasmanian Devil and the destruction he leaves in his
path has proven to be the biggest challenge of the entire rotation.
I remember our Cultural orientation V’s company had conducted the August before we left for The Netherlands. They brought in a few candidates who had just completed their 18-month or 2-year rotations to discuss their experiences to the excited and wide-eyed audience. There was a girl and her husband who had just returned from
Taiwan. She was clearly glowing – gushing about how
fabulous the experience was and how different their culture was to our own
American culture. She described her
workday – “We all brought our lunches and ate at our desks, then pulled out a
pillow and took a quick nap on our desktops.”
She smiled, perhaps a little nervously, through her whole story. Her husband, dutifully sitting next to her,
had a deer-in-headlights-look upon his face.
“She worked so much. There was
once, I did not see her for three days.
I learned Mandarin while we were there.”
And that was about all he had to say about that. The anxious audience, ready to embark on our
own 18 month rotations, shifted awkwardly in our chairs. The panel optimistically focused on the
Repatriate from Australia. With an eye-brow raise to the Taiwan
girl, he took a deep breath, leaned back in his chair and shook his
longish-blonde hair. “Yeah. . . uh. . .
my experience wasn’t quite like that . . .” he continued to beautifully
illustrate short working days, walks along the beach, beer tastings, and rugby
games. We had anticipated something in
the middle – perhaps even similar to his work environment in Dallas. Europeans don’t love to work do they? They like their vacations, right? They value family more than career,
V knew he was in trouble when he sent out his first welcome/introductory e-mail to the team. . . you know something along the lines of “Hi, I’m V, just moved here from
. . looking forward to the opportunity to work along side you all. . . have any
questions, please stop by, my office is. . . .”
He re-read it and sent it proudly.
He received exactly zero responses.
Radio silence. No “Welcome
Aboard”s or “Nice to Have You”s. Nothing.
We also quickly realized that there would be exactly zero opportunities for
me to meet any of his co-workers. No
welcome happy hours, No Christmas party, no personal invites to dinners. I was not invited to a wedding for his
co-worker. (V was invited, to his
surprise, but spouses were not, to both of our surprises). I’ve entertained
co-workers working in Dallas Amsterdam in
our house in Leiden. His Dallas
co-workers organized dinner at a restaurant for us when we visited in Dallas
last November. I guess I could just rock
up to his office here in The Netherlands with my double stroller in tow. . .
and believe me, I’ve thought about it. . . but there’s just something about
people not caring to meet you which makes you kind of not even want to put
yourself through the stress and effort of getting two kids on a train.
Of course, all of this is okay. It is manageable and I can proudly say that we have successfully adjusted ourselves into our home, city, schools, and activities without the help or friendship of a single person from his office.
What tugs at my heart and mind, though. . . is that V’s job has been the hardest obstacle for us to overcome, and yet. . . it is the reason why we are here. They asked us to come. I was having trouble reconciling this fact until an idea came upon me. . . we had applied for the rotation with the expectation of finding out if we had gotten it or not in May 2011. It took until July 2011 for us to find out that Yes! There was a need for my husband in The Netherlands because of some ‘reshuffling of the offices.’ Of course, this is just a theory. . . but maybe the reason why there was a need for my husband, was because no one else wanted to work for the Tasmanian Devil. It’s plausible, and with his co-manager’s recent departure, perhaps not an incorrect assumption. So with that. . . I guess I have reason to be grateful for the Tasmanian Devil and his stress-inducing management techniques.
V had his first review last week and after a lengthy list of all the things V does wrong, V started to grip his seat and breathe deeply. Tasmanian Devil actually takes notice of his nearly hyperventilating employee and asks if everything is ok. With a bravery and forwardness not necessary in
V asks – “Okay, but is there anything positive you have to say? Am I doing alright? Do you like my work?” Tasmanian, taken aback, responds something to
the effect of, “Well of course we like your work, otherwise we would have sent
you home by now.” V nods thankfully and
smiles. At least it was something
As for now, V worked his tail off last week in order to get everything wrapped up before Tasmanian’s ski vacation this week. We both breathed a sigh of relief after his final phone call (presumably minutes before the TD boarded his flight). As for me, I recognize the happy, confident, relaxed man who walks through my door each night this week, which has been a welcome change. I spend a lot of time trying to tell him not to let Tasmanian ruin this beautiful experience we’ve been given, remind him that he only has to endure him for a limited amount of time, that he’s still appreciated at his office back in Dallas, and that anything worth doing in life requires sacrifice and determination.
As for my part, I encouraged V to invite the Tasmanian and his wife to dinner. The invite was extended, probably in the same conversation prior to boarding his plane – I wanted him time to think about it when he was in a good mood – but no confirmation has been received, yet. I don’t know if he will take me up on it, but a few mantras dance through my head. . . “Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer. . . “ and “The best route to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” Armed with Southern Hospitality and Barefoot Contessa cookbooks, I’d like to at least try to show this guy who we really are, explain why we are here, and illustrate the investment that has been made to make this experience successful – at least from the program’s standpoint (this has been no small production to move a family of 4, furniture, plus 2 dogs halfway across the world, if you know what I mean). We’ll see what happens, and at the very least, I can say that like my husband, I have also given it my best shot.